


Hashtag girlfriend (aka the Grammy fic)

by songsaboutdrowning



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the speculation whether Florence and Isa cuddling in public at the Grammys was just a big publicity stunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hashtag girlfriend (aka the Grammy fic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [upriserseven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/gifts).



> This one’s for Rory. You’re an awesome beta and I could not have done this without you… I hope you know I now demand your beta services every time? ♥ Will reward with an awkward trip to Aldeburgh in which we don’t talk to each other at all *sparkles*

_Due to the announcement, late last year, that Ms Welch will be taking a year-long hiatus; in order to generate media buzz and keep the Florence + The Machine name relevant; and considering how the 2012 Grammy Awards were the biggest social media event ever recorded, we strongly advise that…_

Isa comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing her fluffy white hotel robe. She’s touched up her makeup and somehow made it look fresh and not like she went to bed with it on last night: it’s a skill, one that many girls would be ready to kill for.

Still in bed, and wearing a fluffy white robe to match, Florence turns her phone screen towards Isa like she can somehow see it from ten feet away.

“Did you get this memo?” She asks; her tone is aggressive, although not towards Isa, and the panic in her voice is palpable.

“Indeed I did.” Isa responds with a mischievous smile. She grabs a brush and starts untangling her hair, without a care in the world.

“They want us to act like a couple in public and make headlines.” Florence repeats, like this is somehow going to elicit a different reaction the second time around.

Isa just shrugs. “I know. I read it.”

“And you’re ok with that?” Florence clicks the screen off and drops her phone on the bedcovers with a little more momentum than is necessary. There aren’t any other inanimate objects in her close vicinity that she can take it out on, so the phone will have to do. She could punch the wall – or the headboard – but that would just be more work for her makeup artist tonight, probably.

Isa detects all the signs of an impending Florence freakout. No eye contact, hands clawing at the sheets in a nervous rhythm, lips slightly parted like she’s constantly on the verge of saying something and then changes her mind. Isa knows that the only thing to do is put the brush down on the nearest surface and walk the few steps to the bed.

When she sits down on the edge, she takes Florence’s hands in both of hers and tilts her head to the side, staring pointedly until Florence is forced to meet her gaze. Only then does she speak.

“It’s a business, Flo. I guess I can see where they’re coming from, you know.” She gives Flo’s hands a little squeeze and wonders if she’s ever going to stop being driven solely by her emotions when looking at problems.

She knows the answer is no when Florence throws herself back onto the pillows and pouts. “Then I’m not going.”

“Flo, this is really not the moment to throw a diva strop. You know we’re going. It’s the motherfucking  _Grammys_.” Where even does she find the patience to deal with Flo’s childlike sensitivity? Anyone else and she would have come to the end of her tether after a week. How have they stayed friends for ten years?

“I don’t want to make headlines. I’m supposed to be on a fucking yearlong break.” Florence whines into her pillow.

“Then why, tell me, did you say in an interview that I am your most prized possession?”

When Isa slaps her thighs impatiently and makes to get up, Flo’s heart sinks. The last thing she wants right now is an argument. It’s not Isa she’s mad at, she needs to remind herself. She’s mad at the record company – she’s mad at the fame game.

“Ah, I don’t know. I was joking. I did it because I wanted to. No one told me to. I was in control.” Her gaze fixes on the ceiling but she can feel Isa getting closer – the bed sags slightly under her honestly forgettable weight, and an arm wraps itself around her waist over the bedcovers. Isa smells clean and citrussy and the tip of her nose is still wet when she places a light kiss on her cheek.

“Flo – remember where we were when we found out about the nominations?”

Florence knows this tone: it’s Isa’s technique to calm her down. A conscious effort on her part to speak slower, and lower… Florence can see right through her tricks but somehow, it fucking works.

“Yeah?” They were in bed. They’d just woken up. Isa was wearing a Givenchy t shirt and boxers and she’d put on the Backstreet Boys and started dancing and doing a dramatic reading of ‘Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)’. Of course she remembers. She cannot help the smile that pulls at one corner of her mouth.

The soothing voice continues working its magic. “It’s just us, Flo. They’re asking us to be ourselves.”

“I guess.” Florence sighs. Her fingers look for Isa’s and only when they lace together does she feel the muscles in her body slowly starting to relax. She closes her eyes briefly, and tries to match the pattern of her breathing to Isa’s.

“We’ll be fine. You’ll look amazing. You’re going to put on your crocodile dress and I’m going to be so proud that you’re my date, Flo.”

Florence’s heart skips a beat. She turns her head to look at Isa and she’s never seen her quite so excited in the whole time she’s known her. Her smile is open and reassuring and the fullness of her lips so inviting, Florence can’t help leaning forward and kissing them softly.

Even lying down, somehow Isa looks  _up_  at her. It has to be the shape of her eyes that always makes her look like a raptured child, and boy has Isa mastered that look down to a fine art; it would make Florence say yes to anything. Isa smiles a little and bites her bottom lip as she tugs at Flo’s arm and repeats, “We can do this.”

***

_**Short-term objectives:** _

_Increase google searches on Ms Summers’ name by 35% in the 48 hours immediately following the event_

_Reach top trending topics on Twitter in the United States and Canada_

The limousine joins the serpent of cars lining up for the red carpet. There’s six of them packed in the back, and every last one of them has received the infamous email from the record company, so very little happens besides taking a couple of pictures to put on Instagram later. Awkwardness is the dominating feeling in the air.

The boys have had a number of jokes on the tip of their tongue about how Florence’s taste in dates has improved throughout the years, but her forlorn expression and empty stares out the window make them desist from even attempting to lighten the mood. It’s Mairead, eventually, who tries to make things better.

“You guys basically act like a married couple all the time, I promise you, this won’t be hard.”

Isa looks up from her glass of bubbly and at least tries to crack a smile for Mairead. Florence pretends she hasn’t heard, and thanks the divinities of every religion she can think of for at least being able to hide behind tinted glass for a while and collect the little energy she has left.

In a few moments, she will have to step out of the car, and what she needs to do is take the nervousness that’s nagging at the pit of her stomach and channel it into her performance the minute her green-sequinned heels touch the ground. Not that she’s singing at the ceremony, but knowing that she has to keep up this pretence is pretty much on the same level as acting, really.

She’s predictably separated from the group as soon as they arrive, so much for her and Isabella pretending to be something they’re not; Isa’s left behind with the rest of the Machine without even a chance for them to say “see you later” to each other.

Florence bounces from interviewer to interviewer and a defence mechanism kicks into place which makes her brain look at one problem at a time. Concentrate on the questions – don’t think about what’s going to happen later. Don’t think about what’s expected of you: one step at a time will get you from point A to point B.

When she’s all out of points and enters the auditorium, an usher accompanies her to her seat, the only empty one in a row entirely occupied by her little party. She feels momentary relief that Isa is going to be the only person she’s next to all night, until she remembers she doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t know how to be herself when she is  _asked to be._

It is one thing to love her best friend – it is one thing to go to sleep wrapped around each other, and sometimes without clothes on. It is one thing to know exactly what Isa looks like naked and what she tastes like, but having to do this because someone tells her to is  _not fun_. Suddenly, it becomes a script, an expectation. The most natural feeling in the world becomes unnatural, and she doesn’t like that. Florence makes a mental note to turn those thoughts into lyrics some day.

Isa’s hand slips into the nook of her arm discreetly, the tips of her fingers caressing Florence through the sequins. She leans forward in her seat and looks up (always up) and whispers, “Everything ok out there?”

Flo’s quick to nod and offer a tense smile, but there’s no fooling Isabella. Her hand slides down until it encounters skin, and then the tips of her fake nails brush Florence’s wrist.

“You still my croc-o-Flo?”

There is something very empowering about seeing Florence’s smile reach her eyes. She still looks like she’s fighting back tears, but Isa knows that from this moment on there is no way but up.

“Have you looked at your phone at all in the last few minutes?” She asks, as casually as she can muster.

Florence looks confused; she shakes her head and opens the clasp on her clutch to check her texts. She’s greeted by a preview that says:

Florence giggles as she puts her phone away, and before she knows it she’s leant back, and Isa’s arms are around her, awkwardly – damn height difference – but she still closes her eyes, refocuses for a minute, and when she opens them she sees a camera right in her line of sight and all she does is smile.

***

_**Long-term objectives:** _

_A feature in one online and one physical publication with a particular look at specialist websites i.e. gossip columns and/or websites of LGBTQ interest and/or music magazines._

It doesn’t get much easier throughout the night, and Florence has to remind herself that she is now playing the part of doting girlfriend, rather than just doing what she feels like. Isa teases her by saying that if they want the news to travel faster, she should tweet something about being Flo’s girlfriend: someone is bound to pick up on it.

When the next photographer approaches from Florence’s left and clearly motions for her to look into the lens, she’s alert enough to remember that she has to  _do_  something. Something that is easily identifiable as ‘more than friendship’. Her hand positions itself on top of Isa’s knee, thumb brushing her skin ever so slightly, causing Isabella to shiver imperceptibly as she pretends to be looking somewhere else.

It’s not that hard to act like she and Isa are an item, because in many ways, they are. They’ve danced around it so many times without ever giving it a name; Florence begrudgingly admits to herself that maybe Isa was right, maybe she made all that fuss when really, they just had to be themselves.

Did she talk about Isa to any of the interviewers? She’s sure she has at some point, but there were so many she doesn’t know which; the name  _Isa_  rolls off her tongue with the spontaneity of a lovesick teenager, but no one has ever pressed the matter. They never care enough, and most of the time they’re not even actually listening; they just want to get paid, they’re playing a part too.

Isa links arms with her just in time for another photographer to approach. This time, she looks into the camera as well. As soon as he turns his attention to the next row of celebrities, she interrupts Florence’s train of thought.

“Are you annoyed that we didn’t win?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a little?” She knows Isa is probably more annoyed than she is, because Isa goes on and on about how hard they work. Florence doesn’t necessarily see it as work – she just lets herself be dragged from one place to the other, half the time not knowing where she is and why, and lives for the moments when she can just step out onto a stage and start performing.

Isa offers a smile. “Well, whatever is bothering you, now is not the time, because Justin Timberlake’s about to come on.”

“Oh!” Florence exclaims, and looks up towards the stage expectantly. This is going to make Isa happy, and that’s all that matters.

***

_**Long-term objectives (cont’d):** _

_Raise Ms Summers and Ms Welch’s profile in the LGBTQ community with a look at attending dedicated events and possibly be approached as spokespeople._

She leans into Isa – they’re already so close it’s completely unnecessary – and mumbles in her ear, “Do you want to get out a little early?”

“What,  _now_?” Isa considers the pros and cons of missing LL Cool J’s closing performance.

“Yeah. I want to take these fucking shoes off. And get some fresh air.”

Isa doesn’t even have time to say “Ok” that Florence has already stood up and held out a hand to her. She seems to have finally embraced the ‘publicity stunt’ mindset as she and Isa walk their way back up the aisle and into the lobby with their fingers intertwined. A few heads turn to look, but it’s not the heads they need. They need the media and the gossip magazines, not the eyes of music industry people who have seen far worse than two girls hand in hand.

It’s like the minute they’re out of the crowd Flo forgets who she is. She’s no longer Florence Welch, the Grammy-nominated superstar, she’s just a London girl whose feet are in a lot of pain. She doesn’t consider herself above sitting on a countertop to take them off. Isa just fiddles with her phone and doesn’t remove her own heels – she could literally wear them anywhere, in the sand, or the snow, and still be completely unfazed.

She takes two steps towards Florence and shows her her screen. “How does this look?”

The hash tag Grammys was such a pleasure … Thankyou so so much beautiful [ ~~@~~](https://twitter.com/flo_tweet)[flo_tweet](https://twitter.com/flo_tweet) croc-O-Flo for just simply being great :) [ ~~#~~](https://twitter.com/search?q=%23girlfriend&src=hash)[girlfriend](https://twitter.com/search?q=%23girlfriend&src=hash)

Flo shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Why are you enjoying this so much?”

She hops off and grabs both shoes in her right hand, as Isa’s arm wraps around her own once again and she is gently led out of the front door and towards their waiting car.

“The real question is, why are  _you_  so upset about it?” Isa retorts.

Before she answers, Florence takes a good look around the lobby, at the security guards and ushers still standing around, their earpieces, their walkie-talkies. Her eyes flashes to places where they could be hiding cameras: pens, belt clips, the lot. Nothing surprises her anymore, no matter how far-fetched it may sound: fame has taught her to pay attention to certain things, it’s a side effect.

She only speaks when she is fully satisfied with the distance they’ve put between themselves and everyone else, as they walk back across the almost-deserted red carpet. A few people, mostly men in suits, are out there having a smoke or talking on their phones. She still keeps her voice low.

“I feel like it depreciates how much I love you. I want to do cute things with you because I  _want_  to; not because someone tells me it’s good for my image. I’m more than just…” She gestures with her free hand, drawing an imaginary link between herself and Isabella, “this.”

They turn a corner, and the lights are a bit dimmer and the noise is distant now, and she wonders how Isa even knows where they’re meant to be going, but Isa seems so sure of herself, Florence doesn’t dare ask.

“I get what you’re saying.” Isa replies, but she doesn’t stop walking. “I know you don’t want to just be reduced to who you’re with.”

“I’m just trying to protect us. I really don’t want anyone else intruding on who we are, you know? And feeling like they have a say? No one’s even mentioned anything yet and I already want them to shut the fuck up.”

Isa bursts out laughing. “That sounds like something I would say.” She tries to add, “Where the hell is this bloody car, we’ve been walking ages!”, but she just ends up talking all over Florence’s next comment.

“Maybe it’s true what they say that couples just end up blending into one person after a while.”

Isa tugs at Florence’s arm and spins her around. “Couples?”

Flo’s mouth opens, then closes, the slip-up way too evident to mask. It’s too dark for her to figure out if Isa’s reaction is more confused, hurt, or suspicious. She looks down sadly, shakes her head, and shrugs. “What are we, really? We never really talk about it.”

“I don’t know.” Isa pauses to find the right words. “It’s just, sometimes I think you’ve been my longest lasting relationship. You know me, I get fed up with people so quickly. But I never got fed up with you. I never got to the point where the things you do irritate me.”

Unexpectedly, her voice starts breaking. “It’s like you’re above the rules that apply to everyone else. You’re just… you. You know me, and you take me at face value, and…”

Flo’s lips cut her off mid-sentence, one lizard arm wrapping around her waist, hand pressing on the small of Isa’s back even though it’s still holding her heels. This isn’t the light, breezy touch they shared just this morning; it’s passionate, and a little urgent, and a little sad.

“Hey. Hey.” Isa’s grateful that their current height difference (she in heels and Florence without) allows her to reach for Flo’s cheek and caress it gently. “What brought this on?”

Florence exhales, with her eyes closed. “Just that I feel exactly the same way. Maybe we don’t say it to each other often enough.”

“Bad timing, Flo. You should have pulled that stunt at _the biggest social media event in history, the hash tag Grammys._ ” Isa rolls her eyes.

“How far are we from this fucking car? I want to hash tag sit down.” Flo deadpans, a little uncertain about her own joke. They resume their walking, side by side, huddled a little closer this time. Isa leans to one side and bumps Florence with her shoulder, chuckling slightly.

“Maybe the reason you were so against this publicity stunt is that you didn’t know where we stood.” Isa murmurs, and it’s so beautiful and simple and  _obvious_  that Florence wants to stop and kiss her senseless in gratitude. Isa always makes her realise things about herself that she never even thinks about.

Before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “Can we make this official? Like, with or without the press? Just… between us, once and for all?”

“Why croc-o-Flo, you’re asking me to be your girlfriend?” Isa smiles. The limo is finally in sight.

“My hash tag girlfriend, if you please, Isa.” She laughs a crystalline, liberated laugh. “My hash tag girlfriend.”


End file.
